Chernobog
Through many a kingdom I traversed in qualm,
In search of my brother, past writ of in psalm,
When passing grey fields of ashen, sickly rye,
One deserted serf did look to me and cry-
“O, Chernobog!
You fleeting creature, you!
O, Chernobog!
You downright villain, you!
Toiling for that sacred spud,
Boiling under chieftain sun,
Soiling scraps with reek of whisk’,
For what do you yearn,
O, Chernobog!
You impasse you!
What have you to show in blood,
What have I to say I’ve won,
What may fate, in all its risk,
Prove worth my while to?
O, Chernobog!
You imposter you!
With gardens green and lush you flood,
With sunrise plum and fresh you stun,
With currents full and blue you brisk,
Tell me, tell me,
What worth have you?”
And as he passed, he shuddered and ticked,
To grovel and dig, his brain most licked,
I felt my crown, now barren and picked,
For the serf had filched, my soul now sick.

Napoleone, King of Brothers
“Fickle man does not stir in his respected air,
At once in love with nature and beyond morals,
So’s read the noble savage’s earliest state,

And how proper pomp holds vice and sin in compare
Over luxure, those who act civil then quarrel,
Merely a ruse so many fall weak and prey to,

But on Jean’s discourse a promise is writ to wear,
Return to a time with respect wrought in barrels,
Of kindly things, origin of a child’s traits,
And the greatest trait, to be good, to be fair, to be,

Before corruption one saw good equal mortal,
After progress one is foul, I must declare,
Learn to know thyself, you pampered, shallow, nobles,
You romantics, counter their enlightenment,
Let Emile feel love in native limitations!
Let not the Third starve!
Let men rule men!”

Turned and turned the pages did
One after the other,
Revolution was the people’s bid,
That which a Corsican would father.

Artairie
Artairie,
An old boy with poor circulation
And cold hands,
Artairie,
A fickle lad with inconstant blood
And shaky hands,
Atop Eiffel’s Heaven-piercer,
Anticipating his own demise,
Artairie was arrested by his fear of heights,
Attaining naught but where nothing lies,
“What use have I of such a world,”
Artaire thought,
“What use am I for such a universe,
We see but a dome of stars
With our caged eyes,
We may only see past Mars
With what paper money buys,
What serves life in a place so grand,
When stars and dark and light expand
Into Infinity?”
And so Artairie fell,
And fell and fell,
As he had always fallen,
Into God’s closed hand.